Turning the corner, Neeley settled into a steady, swift walk. From the confused babble on the scanner, she had six to eight minutes before the first police arrived.
She made three blocks and then turned left. Here were the first signs of life. This area was more populated, but still well within the urban battle zone known as the South Bronx. Covert eyes watched her as she moved and Neeley slid a hand up, loosening the 10mm Glock Model 20 pistol she wore in a shoulder holster.
Her purposeful stride and appearance deflected any thoughts of evil intent from those lurking in the shadows. Neeley was tall, an inch shy of six foot. She had broad shoulders and a slender build. Her short, dark hair had seen better days and could use styling. Her face was all angles, no soft roundness, with two very dark eyes that took in everything in her surroundings. She moved with a sense of determination, her long overcoat half open, allowing her easy access to the weapons inside.
Two more blocks, no interference encountered, and she reached her parked pick-up truck, nestled among other battered vehicles. She unlocked the door and threw the suitcase in. The first sirens were wailing in the distance as Neeley got behind the wheel and cranked the engine.
For the first time she paused. She held her hands in front of her face. They were shaking slightly. Neeley took a deep breath and held it. The vision of the man looking up at her flickered across her eyes, then was gone. She shivered; shaking her head in short violent jerks, then was still again. She put the truck into gear and drove off.
Sticking with the route she had memorized, Neeley drove, keeping scrupulously to the speed limit. After ten minutes of negotiating side streets, she reached an on-ramp for the Cross Bronx Expressway and rolled up it, heading northeast for New England.
The suitcase on the passenger seat nagged at her. Neeley held her patience for two hours, until the city was over eighty miles behind her, and she was well into Connecticut, just south of Hartford. Finally, she pulled into a rest area. Parking away from other vehicles, Neeley turned on the dome light and put the suitcase on her lap.
She checked the exterior for any indication it was rigged. Nothing. Flipping both latches, she slowly lifted the lid an inch. She slid a finger in and carefully felt the edges. Then she opened it all the way. A wadded piece of cloth lay on top, covering the contents. Neeley peeled the cloth away. Stacks of worn hundred dollar bills greeted her. She didn't count it. She knew exactly how much was there.
Finally accepting she was safe, Neeley allowed herself to think of Gant. She wondered how it would have been to open the suitcase with him. She knew he would have been proud of her. Gant had talked about this mission endlessly. He had a source, someone he called his Uncle Joe, although he said the man was not family by blood, who had called him just two weeks ago with word of this meet. Somebody who must have owed Gant a lot, but Neeley understood owing Gant.
She remembered all the nights she had lain with her body curled into his. Talking about it and perfecting the plan. Every ex-Green Beret's dream, he'd called it.
Neeley closed the suitcase and with it the memories of Gant. There was still much to do.
The day her life as she knew it came to an end, Hannah Masterson forced herself to stroll casually down the carpeted hallway. They were all trying hard not to stare but Hannah was certain they were. She doubted that they knew about John, but she'd always known that people could sense bad news. Hannah had an urge to walk the length of the long hallway, stopping at every desk, and explain in great detail to every person that she had been a good wife, never shirked her duties, always smiled and appeared happy, and that John wasn't really gone. He was just away for a little while. On business.
Of course they wouldn't believe her. She didn't believe it either. Not that she hadn't been a good wife, but that John was really gone. Men like John, with six-figure salaries and power jobs, didn't just dump the wife, career, house and two cars for no reason at all. Something had happened to him, she was convinced of it; well, had been. The day-old postcard in her purse had forced her to acknowledge other possibilities.
With relief, she found the door to Howard Brumley's office open and aimed herself toward a vacant char. One look at Howard's face told Hannah that there was to be no reprieve during this appointment. His normal ruddy complexion was pale; the dancing, flirting eyes were gone, replaced by shaded 'I hate to tell you this' pupils.
Howard picked up a file and tapped the corner nervously. "You look good."
Hannah's wasn't a natural beauty, but more the result of money meeting good bone structure. Her blond hair was thick and shiny, flowing to her shoulders in natural waves. Her eyes, hidden now by the dark glasses, were the color of expensive chocolate left in a hot car. The few worry lines around her eyes and mouth were deepened by the stress of the past week and were the only thing that made her look older than her 31 years. She was a shade under five and a half feet and weighed what any self-conscious woman of means would weigh.
Howard, the family lawyer, was dodging. Hannah knew it was difficult to talk to a woman whose husband had apparently taken the perpetual golf trip. That was how John had done it. Left early on a beautiful Saturday morning the previous week with his golf bag and whistling a happy tune. Glanced back once. Whether to look at her, or the house, maybe both, she would never know. The Country Club had returned the car on Monday. John had taken his clubs. Even with the car back in the garage though, Hannah couldn't believe he was gone.
Howard put down the file folder and leaned back in his chair. "Have you heard anything else from John?"
"Just the card from the islands. If it was John who sent it," she amended.
"Is it his handwriting?" Howard asked.
Hannah reluctantly opened her bag and handed the card over. "It looks like his writing, but it could be a forgery."
Howard shook his head, staring at it. "I can't believe he would do something like this."
"Maybe the card is just—" Hannah began, but Howard was shaking his head again and his attention was no longer on the card.
"No.” Howard gestured to the file folder. “I mean I can't believe he would do anything like this."
"You think he's really gone?” Hannah asked. “Off to some south sea island like this card says?"
Howard sighed. Hannah was watching him carefully. John was hurt. That was it. "He's been in an accident, hasn't he?” She picked the postcard up from the desk. "This was John's way of trying to keep me from knowing, isn't it?"
"He's not hurt, not that I know if.” Howard blinked. "Hannah, I've known John a long time and two weeks ago I would have trusted him with the lives of my children.” Howard took a deep breath. "I don't know what to say."
Hannah sat still and waited to hear something so bad it would render a lawyer speechless.
Having taken the plunge, Howard continued. "Evidently John was planning this for some time. He cleaned out everything: IRA's, mutual funds, stocks, real estate, you name it. You should have had your name on all of it. It was too easy for him. He did leave you fifteen thousand in your household account. But here comes the bad news."
Hannah's head snapped from an imaginary upper cut. She was a little behind Howard, taking it one-step at a time. "He's gone? He's really gone?"
Howard was in a rush to get it over with. "The house, Hannah. It's the house."
"No. That's mine." Her voice was level and hard. "When we paid the note off last year John filed a quitclaim deed and put the house in my name."
She remembered the night well. John had said it was a symbol of his love and devotion. Hannah who had spent most of her childhood in a succession of foster homes felt safe for the first time that night. Her house, it would always be her house.